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BALTlMtm-Er 

Press of Isaac Friedenjvald, 
1882. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1882, 

BY FRANCESE L. TURNBULL, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 

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'"O/i 7vc' live, oil, we live,, 
And this life that we perceive ^ 
Is a great thing and a grave, 
Wliich for others'' use we have. 



(g 



i ■ t 



CQAI^GUEI^IirE'S Uow 



77//^ S/STE/^S 



A MAIDKN tall and dark, with dusky hair 
Shading a brow too strongly marked for 
youth ; 
The contour of her face severely fair 

Through stern reserve, though speaking 
perfect truth, 
With harsher lines, perchance, than sculp- 
tors love, 
And fainter tints of rose than artists seek, 
"With beauty all of soul, and none of 
dimpled cheek. 
My queen, my woman, my Marguerite ! 
When the rare glimpses of her changing 
eyes, 
Tinted, chameleon-like, with every thought, 
Reveal her inner self in holv guise. 



u 



fflAI^GliEFJiniB'S UOW 



Truly it seems, her glance is so serene, 
An angel smiles her fringed lids between. 

Her white hands' greeting spreadeth rest 
and calm. 
With gracious motion of true dignity. 
As though her heart had utterance in her 
touch. 
And flowed, through lines of faultless 
symmetry, 
To the fair finger-tips — as thus a queen 
Might offer welcome with a child's sim- 
plicity. 
Her voice — ah. Marguerite's voice is Mar- 
guerite's charm ! 
It lingers in your ear, your lips repeat 
Each silvery accent as it falls from hers, 

But never seems the echo half so sweet. 
So soft — a breath might waft its tones away. 
Yet so resistless, none can say her nay. 



And this is Marguerite — scarce woman yet, 
But not a child. The massv braids 






CQai^gue RITE'S yo-.v 



Crossing her jilacid brow in coronet ; 

The calm look in her eyes — ah, gentle maid. 
Ah, Marguerite, thank (iod thou art not a wo- 
man vet I 

Now Cometh eve ; slowly the red sun sinks, 
And twilight steal eth on to herald night, 
And Marguerite ])rays 'neath a white canojn-, 

" Teach me, () (xod, to keep my vows aright !'' 
A little sister sleeps where Marguerite kneels, 

The rosy slumbers of a happv child, 
The fair face dinij^ling with the dreaming 
thought, 
And Marguerite, rising, bv fond love be' 
guiled, 
" /t must be for inv happincss^'^ she savs, 
" Dearer than mine own self\ t/iv self to hold 
always ! " 

The pretty Elsie moveth restlesslv, 

Tangling her golden tresses' rippling flow ; 

And Marguerite, watching with her proud 
voung eyes, 
Kisses the vexing ringlets from her brow, 

J^ ^ 



CQaf^gubi^ite's Uow 



Fondling the slender hand with tenderness 

Deep as a mother's — softly murmuring 
The music of her words, cheek pressed to 
cheek ; 
And Elsie, lulled by the sweet whispering, 
Closes her violet eyes with a half sigh 
That "Margie " chants not ceaselessly love's 
lullaby ! 

And Marguerite wonders if two years alone 

Can make the change on Elsie's sunny brow 
They tell on hers. Her heart yearns, woman- 
like. 

To keep the glad life ever bright, as now ; 
And so sleeps Elsie on. The cold stars gleam 

Through the weird fretwork in the tracery 
Of the old castle casement, Margie's eyes 

vSearching as if to solve some spirit mystery 
By their pale light, and asking of the night, 
" In this one purpose of my life, make weak- 
ness — mitjht ! " 



She is not sad, but grave — she is o'er young 
To wrap her whole life in another's being. 
Dead mother, loving each with thy great love. 



fflAI^GUERIJPE'S UOW 



Coulclst ask such pledge as this, no ill fore- 
seeing ? 
Coulclst cast this shadow o'er thy child's 
young life, 
Kidding her silently, through weal, or woe, 
Shield Elsie — clinging Elsie — that no pain 
Come to the wayward child ? Thoii couldst 
not know : 
( )nly the angels count the throbbings of a heart 
vStealing its life-blood to work out this woman- 
part I 



Yet had the noble purpose of her life 

Made Marguerite noble ; and the child 
Elsie looked up to her, and fearfully 

Read in those great calm eyes the chiding 

mild 
Her waywardness oft needed — yet which 

Marguerite 
From her great love was pained too much to 

speak. 
To which pleads Elsie only, "Mareuerite, 
Thou knowest I'm not like thee, sweet 

Marguerite !" 



fflARGUEI^irnE'S UOW 



These two alone in this ancestral home — 

A castle wondrous in its rich device, 
Its tesselated pavement, pictured dome. 

And gorgeous-tissued hangings, quaint and 
old, 
And stiff old portraits of the castle lords. 

And gems of art in frescoed gallerv, 
And burnished armor of some early knight, 
" Who," says the chronicle, " dyed 
valiantlie " ; 
And winding passages with arches grand. 
And columns carved and fluted bv some 
master-hand. 



These two alone in their ancestral home ; 

And Elsie, singing all the summer day, 
Sees Marguerite moving slow through bower 
and hall, 

And fondly smiles at her calm, cjueenly way. 
Then turns to give the butterfly the chase, 
As light, as graceful in the flying race. 
While Marguerite prays, "My angel mother, 

thou. 
Guarding thy child, aid me to guard my vow !" 



i i' 

lljAI^GUEI^IJITE'S yoW I 



THE FE TE 
So passed the sunmier sun to autumn haze, 
So came the winter bound with ice and 
snow ; 
So spring's glad sunshine and its April showers 
Woke the sweet strain of wild-wood mur- 

murings low ; 
Still Elsie, sporting with the frolic winds. 
Sent her glad child-life ringing through the 
glade. 
As much a child as when a child — half shv. 

Half coy, the winsome, mischief-loving maid ! 
Springing to Marguerite's side with bounding 

feet, 
To bid her join her anthem — " Life is sweet !" 

And Marguerite starting from her reverie. 

Turns from the musty lore she loves to con. 
And with the earnestness that makes a prayer, 

She saith, " So be it aye to thee, sweet one !" 
A moment Elsie pauses, wondering why 

Her sister Marguerite's speech is ever grave. 
Then with her blithesome carol, free as air, 

Goes fairy-like, and leaves her to her reve, 

■'- ^ -I- 



CQAI^HIJEI^IIIE'S yOW 



And Marguerite thinks with that strange jiride 

she feels, 
That Elsie every day new grace reveals. 

"Only," she sighs, "the summer dav will pass, 

She cannot ever thus be blithe and gav !" 
Yet smileth Marguerite, all in wondering 

That Elsie's wild caprice should say her nay, 
When she, young mentor, urged with pleading 

speech 
That she would ponder this same musty page 
She loved so well. " Nay, tell me not of books, 
I hate them all — so wouldst thou vainly teach !'' 
And then with clinging arms " Why grave» 

sweet sister mine ? 
Thou knowest all — what need have I ? 'I'hv 
lore is mine !" 



And while she guardeth, ever fond and proud. 
The sweet unfolding of her cherished flower. 

Almost in her young years doth Marguerite feel, 
A mother's loving triumph. Hour by hour 

She watches strangers as they come and go. 
And thinketh each brings homage to the feet 



CQarsuei^i.te's yow 



Of beautiful, glad Elsie. But her dream 

Tells not of self, claims nought for Marguerite, 

\'et, why she scarce could tell, a shade of sad- 
ness came, 

So mingling with her life, life seemed no more 
the same. 

And she^ sweet maid, knows not that one is near, 
Craving the perfectness of love like hers ; 

She knows not that the charm of her great soul, 
Speaking unconsciously through earnest eyes, 

Winneth another humbly to revere. 

And tremblingly to claim this priceless prize. 

Counting more beautiful her spirit's grace 

Than Elsie's sunny charms and faultless face. 

"Sister," spake Elsie, poutingly, "the day 
Is very quiet here ! 'Tis sweet to thee. 
Perchance ; and yet our castle home would 
seem 
Only the brighter for some revelry." 
"Then smile again, sweet Elsie," Marguerite 
said, 
"/ weary not of thee, though thou of me. 
Vet as thou wilt!" and Marguerite, smilingly, 

\ T 



14 



fflAI^GUEr?IHIE'S UOW 



Pressed back the thought — " J/r all, I am not 

all to thee !" 
While her own hand sought out with jealous 

care 
The jewels that should make her love more fair. 

And so it chanced the books were thrown aside, 
And Marguerite, the grave young chatelaine, 
Gave order thus — "A revelry we will, 

And as of old these halls were gay — so now 
again. 
I know not how this feast should be, 
For this I read not in my books. See only ye, 
The stewards of mine household, that no feast 
Compare, for splendor, with this revelry. 
Proclaim it, as such things are wont to be 

proclaimed, 
And let the throng that tills these gates be 
noble named !" 

And now the eve has come, the festal night 
Of which our Elsie many nights has dreamed. 

The 'wildering lights, the strains of harmony. 
The flash of myriad jewels as they gleamed 

On breast and snowy arm of lady fair. 



fQAr?GLlE RITE'S yOW 



Or shone 'mid golden locks and raven hair ; 
The banners streaming from the castle walls ; 
The crush of flowers ; the breath of sweet 
perfume ; 
The sound of many voices, and the tone 

Of ancient gallantry true knights assume ; 
All this seems wondrous fair to Elsie's eyes, 
But Marguerite's laugh hath almost sound of 
sighs. 

Elsie, the radiant, in coronet of pearls. 

And floating film of lace-work shadowy, 
Each soft fold draped by Marguerite's loving 
hand, 
Each gem placed by her fingers daintily. 
"These pearls our mother wore, her bridal 

night — 
So fair and pure ; so meet for such as thou ! 

Keep them, my Elsie, like her memory, 
The treasure of thy heart, the crown upon thy 

brow." 
And Elsie kissed her hand, then careless 

cried — 
"Needs one more fair to be, to be a bride ?" 



i6 



fQARGUEI^IfPE'S UUW 



Poor Marguerite wears hea\ y heart to-night. 
So heavy that each smile seems steeped in 
tears ; 
She stealeth forth from wounding merriment. 

That solitude may cahii her half-owned fears. 
"It is not maidenly," she saith, "to ponder 

thus , 
It is not maidenly — not maidenly." 
And so he found her with her hot hands clasped, 
And her rapt earnest eyes raised tearfully ; 
In quaint, gold-woven rohe, from ancient 
loom. 
She crouches tremblingly ; the emeralds 

Flashing on troubled brow, from out the 
iilooni. 



Whydo her pale lips murmur to the night? 

Why doth she sorrow when all else are gay, 
While all his strong soul yearns to comfort her ? 
Vet stands St. Clair irresolute — half turns 
away; 
She will not tell ///;;/ of her grief, and yet 

Why speak not now his love? Scarcely his 
voice 



ffiAI^GUEI^ITlE'S yOW 



17 



Scatters the solitude on Marguerite's ear — 
"Why art thou here alone?" "It is my 

choice !" 
Her hands unclasp, from out proud flashing 

eyes, 
Marguerite, the princess, speaks ; her slender 

form 
Drawn to its graceful height, with queenly air, 
Such as the maid was ever wont to wear. 
In stiff enclosure of her quaint brocade ; 
Only the jewels glittering on her breast 
Tell in their tremulous light her heart's 

unrest. 

He, watching, as his heart so long had 

watched, 
Could mark the woman's pride crush maiden 

grief; 
He, loving, as his soul so long had loved, 

And yearning as love yearns, to bring relief, 
Yet taking warning from the maiden's eye, 
Saith only in his longing — "Marguerite," 
And she, won by his tone to gentleness, 
"My over-hastiness forgive; an thou wouldst 

speak, 



i8 



(QAI^GUEI^IJPE'S yOW 



Methinks I am not made for revelry, 

So much more welcome is this calm to me." 

He speaks, and Marguerite listens, till her 
heart 
Stands still with wonder at the words he 
saith ; 
And he, in speaking, bendeth lower, till 

On her pale cheek she feels his quicken- 
ing breath. 
She hears not every word, only her heart 

Swells with a joy that startles more than pain ; 
She turneth from his vows — yet, lingering, 

Would hear their echo from his lips again, 
And now is it no more unmaidenly 
That Marguerite's heart frame Marguerite's 
revery ! 

And never word spake she, but silently 
Sat yielding her whole soul to this delight 

Of being loved — so new, so strange to her. 
She never knew till now, life was so bright. 

Poor child ! For the one being she had loved, 
Elsie, the gay, light-hearted, was content 



.i_ ^ i 

fflAI^GUBRITE'S yow I 



With pressing kisses on her sister's cheek, 
And knew not what was love, with Margue- 
rite's measurement, 
S/ie never spake as though their lives were 

one. 
And Marguerite, deeply loving, lived alone. 

For Elsie gave she all her glowing heart. 

For E/sie every thought and every care ; 
And the glad child repaid her as she might, 

A drop for her heart's depth, a smile for 
every prayer. 
" The child is beautiful and fair," she said, 

"None look upon her but with loving eyes ; 
And I?"— She sees a figure grave and dark. 

Thoughtful and colorless, with dusky hair, 
and sighs — 
Nor wonders Elsie deems so little worth 
The love which is her greatest bond on earth. 

Of late, in Elsie's blooming maidenhood 
Hath come a shadow, vague and undefined, 
To Marguerite's heart — shewatcheth jealously. 
Lest some that throng to praise should steal 
away 

i „i 

r 



CQAi^GUEi^i-'nE's yow 



This casket of her life, her love and life. 

"To live, and not be first in Elsie's heart ! " 
And then come prayers and tears — " My vow 1 
My vow ! 
Her happiness my happiness ! Apart 
From this, my God, what were my life to me ! 
Make pure my selfish love in Thy great 
purity ! " 

She ne'er had dreamed that there could come 
to her 
A happiness so great. And now she prayed, 
Sitting with folded hands, that she might be 

Worthy of him. And yet had Marguerite said 
Nor yea, nor nay, unto his pleadings. 
She dreamed not he could question that she 
loved ; 
He, loving, must read all her soul, she 
thought, 
" I cannot see thy face," he said, "for gloom ; 
I cannot read thine eyes, with meaning 
fraught ; 
I do not hear thy voice. Oh, Marguerite, 
Dost love me. Marguerite ? — My Marguerite ! " 



CQai^guei^iipe's yow 



21 



'Twas well the darkness hid her from his sight, 

For in her eyes there flashed a sudden pain ; 
She would have told him that her heart was his, 

But thoughts of Elsie sealed her lips again. 
"It is so strange," she said, "so like a dream, 

I cannot answer yet — bid me not speak ! 
God knows I would not lightly pledge my 
heart, 

Nor give thee less than thy great love should 
seek ! 
Only, the memory of an early vow 
Makethme hesitant — speaking now ! " 

THE OMEN 
A nearer sound of the same merriment 

That seemed to wound so little time before ; 
But noiv doth she not shrink nor turn away. 

As ringing laughter fills the corridor. 
The torchlights, flickering o'er the glittering 
throng. 
The joyous music following in their wake. 
Two brilliant cavaliers lead Elsie on, 

Vying in courteous gallantry for her sweet 
sake. 



CQAI^GLIEI^IJPE'S yoW 



While pendent in the air the snowy wreath is 

seen, 
Proclaiming Elsie the most fair — the evening's 

chosen Queen. 

"But where is Marguerite, grave Marguerite ? 

I kneel for coronal to her alone," 
The laughing Elsie cries — " Thus, Marguerite, 

Thine honorshallbe greater than mine own !" 
Forth from the shadow cometh Marguerite, 

As gentle demoiselle of olden time 
Stepped from artistic canvas into life ; 

But failingly, with her full heart in chime. 
The echo — " Vive our Queen ! " her lips repeat. 
While Elsie blushes rosy at her feet. 



The light and shadow parted where they stood, 
Marguerite, the shadow veiled with mystic 
grace ; 
The light which burnished Elsie's golden hair. 

Scarce dared its reflect on her saintly face. 
Her heart grows faint, her breath comes gasp- 
ingly,— 
Save Elsie and St. Clair, all else are dim ; 



fflAr^GUEi^iiiE's yow 23 

She cannot crown the maid, she trembles so ; 
Her hand, imploring, tends the wreath to 

him, 
And these two only ones her great heart 

owned, 
Stand, radiant in the light— ^/^^ crowner arid the 

crowned ! 

MA RAH 

Far, far into the night the hour had sped, 

The waxen lights burned with unsteady flame, 
The dancers wearied, and the flowers a-droop. 

Imaged the languid glance of each fair dame. 
The music wakens to a grand farewell. 

With stately mien the glittering throng 
sweep by. 
With courtly reverence to the chatelaine, 

And homage to the Queen, more daintily. 
And silence reigns again in bower and hall. 
And darkness closes with its star-gemmed pall. 
* * * * * * * 

An Eastern lamp burns with a gentle flame. 

Which only breaks, but does not quench the 
gloom, 

I I 



fflAI^GUEI^IJPB'S UOW 



Its lustre wafting whei-e it penetrates, 

The faintest, sweetest, lingering perfume. 

On crimson couch, the open casement near. 
Lies Marguerite, the silken cushions pressed 

By her slight figure restlessly, one arm 

Wreathed carelessly above her head, dark- 
tressed. 

Her hand straying among her locks, and list- 
lessly 

Dishevelling them in dusky drapery. 

She feels so weary in her festal robes. 

Almost her heart stands still for weariness ! 
The wearier, the wearier, she thinks. 

For this quick-passing glimpse of happiness. 
She tears the jewels from her aching brow. 
Then, Icalmer, toys with them, bright things ! 

Her smile 
Mournful, with a strange heaviness, the while 
Her lips tell slow and drearily his love — 
So drearily as if her life were closed to love ! 
S/ie knows from the quick blush that Elsie wore 
When his hand gave the crown, her dream is 
o''er I 



CQai^guei^ite's yow 2 



" How like a Queen thou art, my Marguerite ! " 
Cries Elsie, fair and gay, in light undress 
Flowing and white; with her gold hair un- 
bound. 
Rippling in waves that scatter sunshine round. 
She presseth kisses with her rosy lips, 

Her dewy lips, on Marguerite's burning 
cheek, 
She twineth her light fingers daintily 
In Marguerite's passive hand, and wonderingly 

The old return of her embrace doth seek ; 
She kneeleth by the couch, caressingly, 

Her head drooped low, on dimpled arms 
enlaced. 
Her rose-tinged foot from sock and shoe set 
free. 
Her attitude a limner might have traced. 
Still had she seemed to Marguerite's eyes more 

fair. 
Had not those faded roses wreathed her hair. 

"Ah, Marguerite, the happy, happy night ! 
I am not weary, dear, nay — let me stay ! 



^- ^\. 



26 



fflAI^GUBI^IiPE'S yOW 



I cannot sleep so soon — we have not talked — 
Thou'rt strange, and scarce like Margue- 
rite to-day ! 
/ do not tire of mirth so soon as thou. 

And how the jewels flashed ! What brilliant 
cavaliers ! 
Was it not gay to-night — like olden time — 
Such as our chateau seemed in long-gone 
years ? 
Didst thou not like it, sweet ? Thou art so 

still." 
Said Marguerite — "It was my choice to do 
thy will." 

" Thou wouldst have liked it. Marguerite, hadst 
thou been Queen I 
The very first of all the revelry ! 
But not for chaplet would I kneel to them, 
Only to thee, sweet Marguerite, to thee. 
Thou didst not give it me with thine own 
hand, 
And yet, methinks bestowed by Lord St. 

Clair, 
(The noble Lord ! such triumph in his eyes !) 
Made it an honor e'en more proud to wear. 



(QAI^GUEF^UnE'S yow 



27 



1 should have chosen him of all the knightlv 

train, 
Were I to kneel in my white robes, to crown 

me Queen again ! " 



"Wouldst kneel to him, my child — to Lord St. 

Clair ? 
Dost love him, Elsie ? " 

"Nay — I said not so — 
He is most noble and most grand. Adieu, 
And kiss me quick. — Nay, Marguerite, let me 

go !" 
"Dost love him, child?" said Marguerite, 

merciless ; 
The color comes and goes the child-brow 

o'er — 
The blood stands still in Marguerite's writhing 

heart. 
"Perchance !" says Elsie soft, and says no 

more. 
" So, go, sweet one, — go, dream of revelry, 
For life hath yet long joy in store for thee ! " 



28 



fflAI^GUBI^IfHE'S yOW 



And so goes Elsie, with a heart so light 

She. does not even dream of Marguerite's 
pain, 
Yet marvels, with a moment's wonderment. 
That Elsie sought for Marguerite's smile in 
vain. 
She hath not even dreamed, she cannot dream 

How great, how perfect is this sacrifice 
Of trembling woman, strong in suffering. 
Whose bleeding heart to Heaven for victory 
cries. 
"Let her not know my pain!" the crushed 

heart prays. 
" She loves — oh God, my vow ! Her peace — 
always ! " 

So wearily — so wearily —so wearily 

Each second drags its length — a lengthened 

hour, 
wSo languidly — so dreamily — so drearily, 
Lies Marguerite, more in trance than revery. 
Learning the bitter lesson that our life 

Grows long from our heart history, not years ; 
Learning there is an agony so fierce. 

So crushing, that it dries the fount of tears. 



; J^^ 

CQAI^G LIE RITE'S yOW 29 

'' A whole life long — a whole life long — a long, 
long life ! " saith she, 

And so lies Marguerite all the night, in trance- 
like revery. 

And through the long, long night — the long, 
long night, 
She never wept nor moaned — she could but 
pray. 
Lying there passively, so cold and white. 
Waiting with sleepless eyes the slow- 
stepped day. 
She heard each second's flight, all was so still ; 
She heard each throb of her own heavy heart ; 
She did not know if it would break — she 
scarcely cared, 
For it and she seemed things so far apart ! 
So still, as without breath, she lay, save on 

her breast 
The unsteady flash of jewelled light through 
her long hair untressed. 

In a rare moment of forgetfulness 

His words of love she murmured fondly o'er, 

■i J^ 

T r 



30 



fflAl^GUBI^ITB'S yOW 



With lingering mellowness, with rapt in- 
tensity, 
As if her very soul they did outpour ; 
But suddenly the cold clasped hands unclasp, 
A burning fire flows through her every vein — 
" He doth not love the child ! " she cries, "but 
only me ! 
But Elsie loves — she s/u7// uot love in vain ! " 
She prays ! — Who knows the agony of that 

strange maiden prayer? 
That he who loves her, love no more, that 
Elsie win St. Clair ! 

And will the morning never, never come ? 
How cold and weird the star-light, and how 
pale ! 
But through the long, long night, the dreary 
night, 
Her quick-drawn breath alone bespeaks her 
spirit's wail. 
Oh ! sad, sad Marguerite, lone Marguerite ! 

The morning breaketho'er the hills, so gray 
Almost as it were night, almost it were 

Of hope — of youth's fond hope — the burial 
dav. 



fflAI^GUEI^ HUB'S yOW 31 

Thy heart chants voicelessly its requiem, 

Marguerite, 
No other human heart those wild-sobbed 

chords shall hear — 
Thy heart knells ceaselessly the requiem. 

Marguerite ! 



THE EARLY VOW 

And thus the day has come ! no gladdening 
rays 
Of sunshine glittering over lea and lawn ; 
No smile of flowers dew-gemmed ; no carolling 

Of joyous warbler ushering in the morn. 
The air is thick and close, and heavy winged 

With the rich garden odors stealing in. 
Almost until it cloys from lusciousness ; 

The birds are wearying in their ceaseless 
twittering ; 
Too sunless e'en for shadows seems the 

summer-day, 
And Marguerite, at her casement gasps for 
breath, and strives to pray ! 






32 



fflAI^GUEI^IiPE'S XJOW 



A light, firm footfall in the court below, 

Sends tell-tale blushes to the olive cheek. 
Which to its wonted pallor quick returns ; 
And Marguerite, pondering what she shall 

speak- 
How she shall have him believe truth is not 
truth, 
How she shall have him think she loveth not, 
And yet herself speak true — turns calm and 
slow, 
Too calm and slow for one in maiden youth, 
Forgetful of her festal garb and streaming 

hair. 
Her lingering footstep only telleth her despair, 
As in the grand old oaken hall she meets St. 
Clair. 



His hope leaps in his eyes — his eager eyes — 
He, doubting nothing of his sure success, 

Stands silent, chafing in his restlessness. 
And looks, but does not speak, his eagerness. 

Had he loved Elsie, and not Marguerite, 

He had not waited for her tardy speech ; 

His hand had clasped her hand impatiently, 



J i. 

Qai^guei^ite's yow 33 



His words had urged her words. So reverently 
He loves, in loving Marguerite, he scarcely 

dares 
To press a love he deems unworthy hers, 
Until she claim it hers by her own sweet 

consent, 
Until she yield her love with //is love's 

measurement. 
Yet must he speak, for naught saith Marguerite. 



" So — let me lead thee where we stood at eve ; 

Be this one spot of all on earth most dear, 
Here, where I breathed my vows, thou, tell me 
not in vain. 
Why tremblest. Marguerite ? what dost thou 
fear?" 
" I had not thought," she answered, mournfully, 

" I should bring sorrow to so true a heart; 
Yet if I love not as thou lovest me, 

'Twere better for thy love that we should 
part." 
"It cannot be!" he cried despairingly — 
" When thou hast a// my heart, it cannot be !" 



34 



CQai^guei^upe's Uow 



A faint, wild cry broke from her quivering lips; 
She would have fallen, but he held her fast. 
"God grant me strength!" she murmured— 

" Lead me right ! 
Nay, I am stronger now, St, Clair, release thy 
grasp ; 

Only I cannot tell thee where we stand ; 
T cannot tell thee here. Nay, follow me ; 

I am but faint and weary — reach thy hand !" 
" So would I ever be support to thee — 
So would I ever stay thy failing feet ! 
Thou dost not bid me leave thee. Marguerite, 
Thou canst not bid me leave thee, Marguerite !" 



"Thou hast kept vigil all the long night through, 

I tell it by thy robes and streaming hair ; 
Thou art not yet thyself — oh. Marguerite, 

How would I cherish thee with fondest care ! 
I told thee yester-e'en — thou saidst not nay — 

What thought hath grieved thee through the 
sleepless night? 
I told thee yester-e'en — thou saidst not nay — 

Thy silence gave me hope — have I not hoped 
aright?" 



fflAi^GLiEr?i'nE's yow 



35 



She raised a quaint wrought hanging, and they 
stood 
Within the archway of the chapel old ; 
The cold, gray twilight of that summer morn 
Through glowing panes, rich-dyed, no longer 
cold, 
But radiant as with life and hope, in warm 

tints lay 
Aslant the pavement of rich Roman art, 

Aslant the marble slabs memorial, 
On sculptured effigy, and antique bust, 

On crest and shield of knights armorial ; 
It flashed almost in radii round Marguerite's 

head. 
She paused -"Here will I answer thee, St. 
Clair," she said. 

They stood beside a low, carved granite couch, 
A beauteous chiselled figure rested there ; 

But half concealed the snowy marble veil 
Its flowing outline, womanly and fair; 

Too full of grace it seemed for lifeless stone, 

Almost the warm breath seemed to part the 
lips, 



36 



ffiAI^GUEI^IiPE'S yuW 



To swell the rounded cheek, yet cold, cold 

death 
Was imaged there ; alone his icy breath 
Breathed in the soulless marble : Elsie's face 
The sleeping image wore, with Marguerite's 

grace. 



Lower and lower bendeth Marguerite, 

She laves the drooping hand with burning 
tears. 
That cool the passion of her fevered heart — 
Young heart grown old in that long night of 
years ! 
"I have no other friend," wails Marguerite, 
" But only thee, sweet mother, only thee !" 
Low, lest her lover hear her, waileth she — 
Low, lest he wonder at her grief, grieves 

Marguerite. 
"Surely the angels guard our poor humanity; 
I suffer, my sweet mother, guard thou me ! 
To thee my vow was made — oh, shield me now. 
Lest, yielding, I bring grief to thee, by this, my 
perjured vow !" 



fflAI^GUEF^UTE'S UOW 



Still clinging to that hand, as if it gave 

The comfort that no earthly voice might 
speak, 
With eyes yet downcast, fearing lest he read 
Therein that her poor heart was faint and 
weak. 
" I would we were but friends," she said, " and 
only friends ! 
St. Clair, forgive if I have caused thee pain ; 
Thou art so true, so dear a friend to me — 
Not more — thou never canst be more — plead 
not again ! 
Thou wilt but move to tears my woman's heart; 
It cannot grant thee more, dear friend, true, 
noble, as thou art !" 

"Thou wilt not raise thine eyes, and. Margue- 
rite, 
Thy voice is full of tears — it trembles with thy 

tears ; 
God bless thee for thy pity, Marguerite, 
If these are wept for me — I would repeat 
Never one word of love to bring thee suffering. 
Forgive — I have so loved — have I not won 
The right to soothe thy heaviness of heart ? 



38 



fflAI^GUEI^IOlE'S yOW 



Are all thy tears for me ? — oh, Marguerite, 
Not till thou say'st ' I love not !' need we 
part ! 
I would not plead against thy happiness and 

mine ; 
My heart is strong for any grief, unless that 

grief be thine — 
I only plead — Grieve not thy heart, in teach- 
ing grief to mine ! 
Oh ! Marguerite, thou art o'er young, o'er 
young 
To speak thus darkly of an ' early vow ' — 
Is it this something, promised when a child. 
That robs me of my happiness — that brings 
thee anguish now ? 
Perchance thou followest blindly in thy zeal ; 
As friend should counsel friend I counsel 
thee. 
Kneel, pray that Heaven lend judgment mer- 
ciful 
To teach thy heart aright. Then give to me 
An answer — what thou wilt, so that it be 
Unfettered by the vow thy child-lip breathed ; 
And though I seek no joy apart from thee, 



fflAI^GUEI^IJPB'S yOW 



If but my heart alone learn life's lone bitter- 
ness, 
I murmur not, so thou find happiness !" 

"I know not why," she said, "the happiness 
should be my lot 
That does not come to all. I do not crave 
A life unmarked by pain, I only pray 

That through its trials heavenly grace may 
save 
And make my weakness strong ! No human 
heart 
But meets some answering echo through the 
vale of years — 
It may be not of joy, yet how it soothes 

When other eyes grow heavy with our tears ! 
And what were life, lived we for self alone ? 
Each heart needs twine its tendrils round 
some kindred one ! 

" What if mine eyes show tears ? I do not fear 
To let thee see them there ; tears for myself 
and thee ; 



40 



CQai^suei^i.tb's Uow 



I have not wept the long, long, sleepless night, 
I thought myself more strong ! Look pityingly 
On a weak maiden's weakness. Oh that mother- 
love 
Might soothe my pain, with sweet-voiced 

whisperings ! 
Sometimes when it is dark hast thou not 

wished 
Thine eyes might see the light ? — what 

couldst thou do but pray ? 
So have I prayed — it seems all darkness yet ; 
Man can bat wait till God's sun bring the 

day ! 
My pledge was given to one who sleeps beneath 

the earth's cold crust — 
So help me, God ! my woman's heart shall keep 

my childish trust ! 



" It is not for my happiness, St. Clair, 

To list thine earnest words - nor is it thine 

To urge me still. Go, friend, be yet a friend, 
God's peace go with thee. Every thought of 
mine. 



fflAF^GUEI^IinB'S UOW 



41 



In blessing for thy love, bids me forget that 

love. 
I have been weak to tell thee of a pain 
Thou canst not comprehend — forget, forget 
The strange confession ! Let me wear my 

pride again ! 
This V07V so wraps my heart — wraps my whole 

life, 
It leaves no room for thee. It imist\)x\w^ peace 
To follow on where duty leads. Go, leave me 

now, 
And if thou thinkest aye of Marguerite, 
Think how she blessed thee, kneeling here at 

her dead mother's feet ! " 



Her hand ached with his strong despairing 
grasp. 
Her brow burned with his kiss of bitterness ; 
She heard his step grow fainter in the hall, 

She heard the chapel ring with emptiness ; 
She never raised her eyes — each footfall 
seemed 
To press down, deeper down, the memory 



42 



fflAI^GUEI^IiPE'S UOW 



Of all she held most dear ; the joy, the pain 
Of her young life — to close them in her heart 
eternally ! 



A haze came o'er her eyes, she could not see, 
A chill crept through her heart and made it 

numb, 
The past, the future, present, formed a blank, 
So void, so vast, so throbless, so intense, 
She cared not if she lived or died — she 

cared not what might come. 
Had not her heart-strings knelled the death of 

joy? 
Was not her girlhood dead ? Had she not lived 
A long, long life of pain ? What could there 

come 
Greater to her than her known suffering ? 
Oh, Marguerite ! lone Marguerite ! drear Mar- 
guerite ! 
She knelt there till the sun grew low — alas, 

alas the gloom 
In Marguerite's heart, in Marguerite's life— 

by Marguerite's mother's tomb ! 



©AI^GUEI^IIPE'S yOW 



43 



THE SACRIFICE 

Because true woman truly loves but once, 
So hath her love more worth. She cannot 
yield • 

Her holiest incense — ay, her spirit's self, 

Her every thought, to one more dear than self, 
And freely trust her heart with him alone 
unsealed. 

And then forget that she has loved ! 

The future cannot be to her what the glad past 
has been, 

She cannot say — " Oh, heart, sufficient to thy- 
self 

Be in thyself ! In loving not, now, as of yore 

Thou shalt be gay, glad-hearted ! Love thou 
not !" 

The chords once waked, must throb forever- 
more ; 
And yet so proud she is, her eyes will learn 

to smile. 
Pain, ever-present, gnawing at her heart the 
while, 

For love is woman's life ! 



44 



fflM^GUBI^UPE'S yOW 



And man ? Is he more strong ? Or yet in sooth 
Perchance he loves not with his whole great 
soul, 
Or counteth love a folly, worthy youth, 

A light delassement, easy of control. 
Yet are there hearts that God sends fresh from 
heaven 
That cannot lightly dream of what the angels 
sing: 
Men's hearts, so strong in earnest manliness, 
Their steel but proves its truth through 
suffering ; 
And these, not pining for what may not be, 

Can stem with steady feet life's changing tide, 
The stronger that a lingering of regret 

Turns heart and will away from love so 
vainly tried. 
Love is not all their life, for they are men ; 
"The whole wide world is theirs," they say, 
"courage and forth again ! " 

Alas, that there be those like Marguerite, 
Craving each night and morn on bended 
knee, 



fflAP^GUBI^IiPE'S UOW 



45 



Forgetfulness of some one crushing grief 
That eats into their life, while jealously 
They guard their secret with their grief-taught 
smiles, 
Cold glittering smiles that youth should 
never know ! 
God grant not often swells the mournful cr}- — 

*,' Father, why do I bow to this one woe ? 
Thy mercy maketh all things else so bright, 
I would not murmur. Father, show thy child 

the light !" 
For this was Marguerite's ceaseless prayer. 
And evermore, alas ! poor Marguerite, 

Craving, as women will, the sympathy 
Of some true woman-heart, must she endure 

Life's wearying monotone, and suffer silently. 
What could she breathe to Elsie, for whose sake 
Her life was thus embittered ? What unfold 
Of grief to such glad maidenhood ? The ring- 
ing laugh 
Floating through open casements — Elsie's 
laugh — 
Seems mockery of life, to this young heart 
grown old. 



46 



CQai^gubf^iipe's Uow 



When, mother-like, at eve, hands clasped o'er 
the fair head. 
Called blessings down, her voice would 
scarcely fail 

In the soft evening hymn ; yet how she longed 
To feel warm raining kisses meet her voice- 
less wail — 

To clasp the child with wild convulsive clasp, 

Of pain long suffered, and so long withheld ; 
to break 

From the calm chanted tones, and sob out all 
her grief instead ! 

For woman's grief grieves ceaselessly for 
sympath3\ 



And yet so bravely Marguerite struggled on, 

That not one trivial act of daily duty 
Her hand left unfulfilled ; 

Yet all seemed cold, task-like, and wanting 
beauty. 
Fulfilled so faithfully as when a student gains 

Some copy by a careful measurement, — 
Each line must be exact, else will there be 

No semblance of perfection in his work. — 
Himself the instrument 



fflAI^GUEI^UPE'S yOW 



In all this mass of detail — not the niaster-ivill. 

St. Clair, in little time, chanced oft again 
Within the castle gates, and Marguerite's 
smile 
Welcomed him frank and true)as though he were 
Such friend as she had said. And thus, the 
while 
She learned to hide her heart, he learned to 
think 
His suit had been in vain. He could not 
penetrate 
The mask of woman-pride each action wore, 

But yielded, in sad dignity, himself to fate. 
He knew she would not change the word that 

she had said ; 
And with hope fled, he turned at last to Elsie's 
smiles instead. 



She, child-like, cared not that her dimpled 
cheek 

Blushed rosy-red for him. The petted maid, 
To whose sweet baby-face and winning ways. 

And light caprice, was homage ever paid. 



48 



(Qai^gubi^i-te's Uow 



Could never dream of love without return. 
She, with so little thought to hide, had never 

sought 
To learn concealment's art ; and Marguerite, 
From sadder knowledge, would not chide a 

naivete untaught ; 
So sacred to her own crushed heart youth's 

impulse seemed. 
She prayed her darling's happiness ; she 

watched, but never schemed. 



And once again, St. Clair, half hesitant, 

Is by her side. More calmly now he pleads 
Than on that well-remembered eve ; he 
pleadeth less. 
While Marguerite's heart, with Marguerite's 
heart, for Elsie intercedes — 
For Elsie and St. Clair, these tw^o beloved. 
She stifles her heart's pain, wath notes of 
thankfulness 
For that her pain brings happiness to both. 
More dear to her than her own happiness. 
•' 1 know," he said, "that for thyself my love 
would plead in vain, 



GQai^guei^ijpe's Uow 



49 



So have I quelled my first great love — say me 
not nay again." 

She was no saint, with heart from passions free ; 
It was not crime, but weakness, that the 
blood 
Flowed quicker in her veins, for the grieved 

tone 
Of love for her, half hidden in his speech, 

E'en while he plead for Elsie. She withstood 
The sweetened poison of the thought, for 
Elsie's sake. 
As guardian of her darling's happiness. Her 
hands 
Clasping, unclasping nervously, the only sign 
All was not calm within. Queen-like she 
stands — 
"Tell me, thou lovest Elsie as thou ne'er hast 

loved before " — 
" I had loved Elsie best," he said, "had I not 
loved thee more ! 

"I loved thee, Marguerite, as man may love 
The woman of his dream ; so far above 



.J. 



50 



CQAi^suBi^iiPE's yow 



His earthl}' hopes, only the stars of night 
Read on his dreaming lips the words — 

'I love!' 
The day seems dark to him without her smile, 
The memory of the face he dreamed — an 

angel's face ! 
So fills his heart with visionary love, no earthly 

form 
With fairest brow and brightest eyes hath 

grace 
To win him from this love ; and through the 

day 
His heart's sweet vision seems an angel ward 
Urging him heavenward, as pleasing her 
Who is not of the earth. He knows himself 
Unworthy angel's love, but loves he yet 
The more for his despair. So I loved thee, 

oh, Marguerite !" 

He speaks as in a dream, eyes seeing naught, 
Fixed on the changing sky ; and Marguerite, 

The image of his dream, half turns away. 
Lest her eyes' trouble say his dream was 
sweet. 



fflAI^GUEI^IIIIE'S yOW 



51 



"No memory, St. Clair," she sternly said, 
" Should be so dear to thee as Elsie's self; 
No rival in thy love should Elsie know, 
E'en be it but a dream of fancies fled. 
I grieve I dare not trust her happiness with 

thee, 
So little loving — oh, St. Clair, couldst ask my 

all of me !" 



" How could I choose but love one who received 
Thy heart's whole love, so lavishly out- 
poured? 
If worthy thine, I knew that she must be 

Worthy of more than mine — she, the adored 
Of thee, my dream, — nay. Marguerite, sweet 
friend, 
Seem not so stern ; I could not ask of thee 
Thy lovely Elsie's hand, had she not won 

The truest, fondest, earthly love from me. 
Truly I grieved for thee, as strong men grieve, 

in pain : 
Men should not long regret a prayer once urged 
in vain : 



©Ai^euEi^iJUE's yow 



So have I ceased to crave this one great boon 

denied, 
Knowing myself unworthy thee — thou an 

unwilling bride. 

" We speak as friend to friend — oh, Marguerite, 

The past enfolds the romance of my life, 
Its holiest affections, for no after love 
Can claim the heart so free and so entire : 
Grieving and pain have bruised it in the 
strife. 
There comes a time when waking man must 

learn 
Life is not all a dream ; and if he turn 
Back to his youth, its fancies and its fire, 
A moment dwelling on the spirit of his dream. 
The memory is passionless — and passionless 
He turns him back to life's reality. 

" By yon bright sinking sun that flashes now 
Its parting lustre on thy softening brow, 
I love but Elsie only. This to thee 
Who taught me first to love, with love's 
intensity I 



fflAI^GUEI^IIlE'S yOW 



53 



I cannot love as I have loved before, 
But love her not the less that I have loved thee 
more ! " 

"And Elsie ?" - "Ay, she bade me come to thee." 

The sinking sun fades in the western sky ; 
The red flush creeps away from Marguerite's 
brow. 
And leaves her in the shadow. Her reply 
Comes from slow-parted lips, with laboring 
breath : 
"I give my dearest treasure then, to thee, 
Dear friend. My cherished one henceforth 
shall turn 
From me, who have so loved, to thee, 
untried ; oh, guard her tenderly, 
So fair, so young, so true ! " 

Her hand, first raised on high, 

Tremble? on his bowed head, and solemnly 

The maiden blessing speaks : 

" God guard ye both, dear ones, forevermore, 
Elsie, my child, and thee, my brother! Bless 
ye now. 



54 



(QARGUBi^inTE's yow 



And bring ye, hand in hand, to the eternal 
shore !" 



LOVE' S DEPTH 

The two sat silently, as those may sit 

Who know their hearts from very sympathy, 

Think each the other's thoughts ; what need of 

words, 

When silence giveth speech more perfectly? 

Thinking the same thought each — and yet, how 

differently ! 
Marguerite, half bending o'er the child, her 
fingers straying 
With careless grace through the rich, gold- 
tressed hair ; 
The shadowy light of love and pain, her dark 
eyes filling, 
Her heart upon her face — who had not called 
her fair ! 



The last, last night that Elsie seemed her own ! 
Strange tenderness, e'en for her tender love, 
this gave her touch. 



fflAI^GUEI^ITB'S yOW 



55 



The child whose happiness would make her 

life -long pain, 
Who, in her child-years, she had loved with 
mother-love. 
To yield the first place in this heart to him ! 
Surely they asked too much ! 
And now these two, she had no life beyond, 
These two had no more need of Marguerite ! 
" My vow ! strength, guarding angels ! Let me 
feel 
Life yet is dear to me, for his and Elsie's 

sake !" 
The heart is very great that would not break. 
Yielding its all to what had been its all, 
Leaving itself thus lone and desolate ; 
But Marguerite strains her closer, without sob 

or sigh. 
Smiling her love unutterable, so tenderly ! 

"Oh, Marguerite!" cries Elsie, merrily, 
"'Tis sweet to love !" "Ay, child, unless it bring 
A bitterness life-lasting," murmureth 
Poor Marguerite, silently, with gasping 
breath. 



56 



fflAI^GUEI^IJPE'S yoW 



"Say, sister mine, wh}^ hast thou never loved? 
Or seems it folly to thy heart so grave ?" 
"Child," sayeth Marguerite, with stern voice 

and mien, 
" It cannot seem a folly to the wisest heart, 
Since heaven the lesson teaches, and its praise 

heaven's voices sing. 
I, / have never loved who so have loved thee ! 
Ob, Elsie, thy young happy heart could learn 

love's depth from me ! 



" P^orgive, I had not marked the waning hours; 

I must not keep thee from thy rest, sweet one. 
Closer, and rest thy head upon my shoulder, 
so — 

The last, last night, that thou art mine alone ! 
Elsie, long loved and watched, how can I 

let thee go ! 
My little one, my child, my all !" 
"Margie, I leave thee not, there only comes 
Another dear one to our castle home ; 
Another for thy sister heart to love. 
Wilt thou not love him, sweet? " 



QA 1^(3 UEI^ HUE'S UOW 57 

"There could not come 
One throb of joy, my treasured one, to thee 
That should not thrill some chord within my 
heart. 
The keeper of thy happiness can but be 
dear to me ! 
My darling, I have prayed as few can pray — 
Ay, with my heart's first prayer, thy happi- 
ness." 
More closely Elsie nestled, whispering timidly, 
"The angels ever thus thy pleading bless !" 



THE BRIDAL 

The sun has risen gloriously, 

The casket of the dawn 
Outpours a wealth of dewy gems 

To deck thy bridal morn ! 

The sun has risen beauteously. 

The dawning's blush is fair 
As rose tinge on thy dimpled cheek. 

Bride-maiden, with gold hair! 

J^ J 



58 



CQai^guei^ite's yow 



Wake, for the birds are carolling 

Thy bridal matin-song ; 
Forth from thy dreams and dewy sleep, 

While we their chant prolong ! 

Sweet dreams that usher in the day. 
Sweet golden dreams of love ; 

Carol, ye birdlings, joyously. 

Smile, skies, love's vows above ! 

Ah, rosy as the morning mist 

Thy snowy veil shall seem ; 
Thy life be glad as this glad dawn. 

And golden as thy dream ! 

Bride-maiden wake, to prayer, to prayer ! 

The sunny moments flee ; 
Our lips are mute, but angels hear 

Our "Benedicite "! 



Softly to Elsie's ear, at break of day, 

Sweet voices wafted up the simple chant. 

Sweet maiden voices, while fair fingers twined 
The orange buds for her gold tresses' 
ornament ; 



fflAI^GUEI^IUIE'S yow 



And Elsie, lying in her waking dream, 

Thinks but how sweet it is — how very sweet ! 
While all the sadness of the bridal-song 

Thrills through the heart-pulse of poor 
Marguerite ! 
Yet, thoughtful, saith she: — "Little one, the 

song is o'er ; 
Thy smile should thank for loveliest wreath 
bride-maiden ever wore !" 

And Elsie blushing at her casement stands, 
Dimpled with smiles, and saying timidly, 
"Sweet friends, the day be nigh when ye shall 

hear 
Such joyous song as met my waking car, 
May bridal-chimes for each and all soon 
sound their melodv !" 



Then peals of gurgling laughter fill the air. 
Soulless and sweet, and silvery, speech is o'er ; 
The maidens turn them to their cottage homes, 
Chanting a lightsome carol, blithe and gay ; 
And Rose's cheek is redder than before, 
The while she seeketh Louis by the way; 



6o 



fflAI^GUEI^IiPE'S UOW 



And giddy Blanche sees visions passing fair, 
Of village church in festal garb arrayed, 

And her sweet self with bride-wreath in her 
hair. 



Ah, tell me, is the gift for weal or woe. 
To feel with passion light hearts cannot know ; 
With joy that trembles on the fount of tears, 
With grief that grieves unsoothed through 
passing years ? 



How solemnly the grand old organ pours 

Its wedding greeting on this wedding-morn ! 
The prayers and blessings of a thousand 
hearts, 
Silenced from awe, seem on its chords up- 
borne. 
The expectant throng the castle chapel crowd. 
With reverent hush the bridal group await ; 
They rise, a murmur tills the air — " How 
beautiful !" 
As through the aisle it files in glittering 
state. 



CQai^guei^i/he's yow 



6i 



And yet not charmed so much by Elsie's 
Psyche face, 

As Marguerite's saint-like dignity and mourn- 
ful grace. 



The priest hath asked — " Who gives this maid 

away ?" 
And Marguerite, with that wondrous calm 

upon her brow, 
Speaking the high resolve an angel's face 

might wear, 
Untremblingly, her right of love hath granted 

Lord St. Clair. 
She only stands an instant with her head low 

bowed, 
And hands tight-folded o'er her beating heart ; 
Stands thus unnoticed, for the world deems 

not 
Of pain heart-crushing 'neath a brow serene. 
The moment she hath prayed is o'er. Her act — 
None knew how truly — rends the lives apart 
Heaven formed to be but one. And yet she 
dreams 



62 



CQarguei^ite's yow 



Her happiness hath bought these dear ones 

happiness — 
Her vow hath been fulfilled through her own 

bitterness, 
Alas ! mistaken duty prompts the sacrifice, 
Yet surely angels bless this woman's nobleness. 



THE SHADOW OF THE HEARTH 



To Marguerite's heart, so wrung with suffering, 
To Marguerite's life, so lone with loneliness, 
There came another pain. She could have borne 
Her accepted part with that submissiveness 
Time mellows to an acquiescence murmur- 
less, 
As of one saying ceaselessly "'Tis better so," 
And which men name Content, but angels 

Faith, 
liecause through trust alone these words it 
saith ; 
But this new pain she met on suppliant knee, 
(drying through blinding tears, " On me — not 

them — but me. 
If error there hath been, fall all the misery ! " 



r ^^!c 

CQai^guei^ite's Uow 63 

Alas ! too surely came the consciousness 

To Marguerite, watching covertly, that Hope 
had been 
A brighter limner than Reality. 

A something lighter hearts had never seen 
'Neath the calm tenor of the Castle-life, 

Showed her whose wistful eyes looked more 
than surface deep, 
The shadow of the hearth ; for Elsie's eyes, 
Shallow and shadowless, were yet too light 

The fulness of a woman's trust to keep. 
She loved him — ay, capricious children love — 
She loved him when he was not grave ; and if 

he were, 
He might seek sympathy of Marguerite — not 
her! 

She was a pretty thing, a graceful thing ; 

The prettier when his actions told her this ; 
She never wearied when he chose to make 

The same soft speech with oft-chimed 
emphasis. 
She loved him for his noble brow and eyes. 
Not for the intellect which made them grand. 

^■i ^ 



64 



QAr^GUEi^iiiB's yow 



She had no inner life ; his was unknown to her ; 
How should she read the depths she could not 
understand ? 
Was it a marvel if the memory 
Of his lost '■'■Dream'''' came sometimes back to 
him ? 
Or that he ever craved the sympathy 
Of something more than smiles ? But Margue- 
rite, 
Reading with great calm eyes his trouble on 
his brow — 
Marguerite, whose thoughts had ever chimed 
with his. 
Spake never word to soothe — '' Tzvas Elsie'' s 
province iicnv ! 



A pretty thing she was, a graceful thing; 

Formed for the sunshine of the summer day ; 
Almost she seemed Undine in maidenhood, 

As sweet and soulless in each winning way. 
He loved her well — the sportive, wayward 
child— 
As child — not wife. Alas ! for he had 
deemed 



fflAI^GUEF?IJnB'S yOW 



65 



The bud the lovely germ of fairer flower, 
But the unfolding he hadvainly dreamed 



The heart will crave the earnest and the true, 
And outward grace must cease to satisfy, 

Unless the brow be lofty with the mind's 
impress ; 
Unless the spirit's light the mortal sanctify ! 



tie, struggling with the utter banishment 
Of aim and purpose that should make life 

great, 
Unable from his weariness and loneliness to 
work against his fate, 
Or seek his wasting mind its needful nourish- 
ment ; 
And Marguerite, with the ceaseless prayer 
upon her lips 
Which often through hot tears these two 
dear names expressed. 
The struggle of her life to make them one. 
Not for herself 



66 



JUai^suei^uhe's yow 



vShe wept, but prayed — " Forgive me, Father, 

for his pain ! " 
Thus praying from the love controlled, but 

unrepressed : 
Elsie, the child-bride, wedded to the earnest 

man. 
Holding so light a thing the key of his great 

heart : 
So lived these three — so closely bound, so 

far apart ! 



They called her cold — these two she had so 

loved — 

Because they knew her not. The solitude 

Of mind and thought her daily life confessed, 

— By thought that fathomed not — so little 

understood ! 
A Father's gracious hand worked for his 
children's good. 
Ah ! not in vain each tender chord was strained 
With painful tension to its present strength ! 
Taught by her own heart's pain to meet 
heart-suffering. 
She rose ensanctiiiedto high resolve at length. 



fflAI^GUEI^IItB'S yow 



C7 



No life, however desolate, need be so purpose- 
less, 

But struggling to an holy aim must soothe its 
bitterness ! 



Her over-burdened heart outpoured its love 

Within the desolate dwellings of the poor; 
And little children, for her sad, sweet smile, 

Stood charmed listeners at the cottage door. 
The while her soft voice soothed some weary 
pain 
With sympathy more welcome than her gifts, 
A sympathy which says "God made us both," 
A charity which tenderly the lowly heart 
uplifts. 
As days passed on and gathered into years. 
Each night from grateful hearts uprose the 

untutored prayer, 
"Kind angels guard her rest who loveth us I 
The riches not of earth be our sweet lady's 
share ! " 



68 



fflAr?GUBI^IiPE'S UUW 



THE DREAD ANGEL 

O Death ! a rest to weariness of Earth, 

Yet comest thou in dread ! Hushed hearts, 
and eyes 
Heavy with weeping, watch the spirit's flight, 
Groping in shadows, blind to the new after- 
light. 

Kept back by what is mortal of the man ! 

Surely this light enshrines his spirit now ; 

He smiles -not with Earth's smile ; within 
his eyes 

Things past are not, but only things to come ; 

The Death-peace leaves its holiness upon 
his brow ! 

— "Not dead ! I cannot bear it, Marguerite ! " 

Cries Elsie with wild sobs — "I loved him so ! 

Not dead — thou hast not loved — oh. Margue- 
rite ! " 

Her cheek wet with the rain of Elsie's tears, 
Her arms enfolding her, as in days past 



(I>AI^GUEI^IirE'S 'UOW 



69 



A little child she lay, close to that loving 
breast, 
Soothes Marguerite — till the paroxysm past, 
Her sobs grow faint, and slumber comes at 

last. 
Now, now may Marguerite weep ! such 
scalding tears 
As Elsie never knew. The agony 

Pent up in her shut soul through tearless 
years. 
The few that seemed so long ! As breaks the 
storm, 
Fiercer and darker for long gathering. 
Her heart outpours itself from passionate 
depths 
In ears that Death has sealed to wondering; 
Over his pulseless hand her burning lips 
Rain love ne'er breathed before ; his icy brow 
Warms with the impress of her maddening 

kiss 
Till that she shrinks away lest life be 

there. 
Alas ! thou kneelest, Marguerite, alone in thy 
despair ! 



70 



fflAr?GUEi^iJiiE's yow 



"My love, that never met my answering eyes I 
My love hushed in my heart, but hushed in 

vain ! 
My heart will break, O God ! my heart will 

break ; 
It bows, it writhes, beneath its weight of 

pain ! 
My love that had been mine — my own, my own, 
vSave for my vow ! O God ! it was a curse 
That darkened all my life — a bitter curse ! 

— Dead — dead ! 
1 could have borne my pain alone, but thy 

heart too hath bled ! 
Poor heart ! so fondly loved by mine own 

broken heart I 
For I may love thee now thy need of love is 

o'er, 
And I may tell thee now that I have loved, 
When earth-love with its pain will never 

grieve thee more ! " 



Kissing his forehead till its iciness 

Chilled to her verv heart, and froze the tears 



fflAI^GUEI^IItE'S UOW 



71 



Back in their depths again ; then kneeling low 
Beside him, with clasped hands, as who 

revei'es 
The majesty mysterious of Death, 
Sobbing herself to calm, she murmureth — 
"The shadow of earth's pain has left thy brow. 

Thine eyes will never wake to weariness, 
I would not call thee back to suffering 

To make my own sad life less full of emp- 
tiness ! " 
Then rising, stooped she o'er him with her 

passion's depth confessed, 
With tearless eyes and grief all spent, save in 

her throbbing breast. 
Left him — the Dead — with outward calm, as 

in earth's pulseless rest. 
Love's last adieu ensanctified, on his closed 

eyelids pressed. 
And went — submissively. 



Chamber of Love and Death — of sacred rest, 
The dying sunlight floods with glory now; 
The calm of purer worlds embalms thine at- 
mosphere, 



72 



ffiAI^SaEI^I-TE'S UOW 



And soothes the grief that weeps above the 
sleeper's brow. 



''LIFE IS PERFECTED BY DEATH'' 

" Come, Marguerite, let us stand where he can 
hear, 
For I would speak of him." And Margue- 
rite knew 
From the unwonted light in Elsie's eyes, 
The waking of the soul-glance struggling 
through : 
Read in the pallor of the rounded cheek, 
In the soft languor of her erst glad tone. 
The sun of I^lsie's life should sink and wane 
E'er yet the maiden bloom had rounded into 

noon ; 
The shadows of life's passing seemed to raise 

and sanctify 
To the new dawn of life this temple of the soul, 
Taught first, by glimpse of death, its immor- 
tality. 



CQAI^GUEl^imE'S Uow 



73 



" So — let me rest my head, as in those days 
When I was child to thee, dear Marguerite ; 
It is so new to me, this weariness, 
And yet not sad, save with much tenderness. 
Oh Sister ! do not weep ; thou art so strong, 
My weakness looks to thee for aid. Thy 
heart, 
So truer than mine own — so greater than mine 
own. 
Shall teach me of its fullness e'er we part. 
Speak as he spake, of love, immortal love. 
Life of this earthly life, and soul of life above !" 
And Marguerite's eyes grew dark with tears, 

(suppressed, 
Lest they should sadden Elsie), while she 

moaned reply — 
"Alas, sweet one ! I cannot teach thee aught; 
Thou art more near to knowledge of this Love 
than I ! " 



A strange, sad sight it was to see these two 
Thus standing, hushed in memory of the 
grief 






74 CQAr?GUEr?;jiiB's Uuw 



'riieir hearts had wept together: standing 

calm, 
Enshadowed by the grief which was to 

come, 
Fraught with such desolate loneliness to one 

alone, 
Here by the tomb of him whose life had 

been 
Strangely enwoven in the lives of each. 
The Chapel's twilight gloom enshrouding 

duskily 
These two pale women's forms, and softening 
With a mysterious grace each marble curve 
Which else had worn his image stonily. 



Spake Elsie, "More than in the first days of 
its loss 
Knoweth my heart its loneliness. A change 
Seems on the surface of all earthly things 
That meet mine eyes : yet sweet and 
strange 
The new perceptions dawning on my soul. 

t V 

T r 



CQai^gueriipb's Uow 



75 



Between the seen and the invisible, the veil 
Grows lighter even now : O Marguerite ! 
The lonely path within the shadowed vale 
I tread with weak, but not reluctant feet. 
And with the nearing of that other life 
My waking soul doth feel the shallowness 
Of all that in my happier life my heart called 
happiness. 



"Now that his silent lips can never answer 
mine, 
I fain would question him of high and holy 
things ; 
I fain would hear again the thoughts that 
wearied once. 
Urged by the sad and earnest voice that 
now Heaven's anthem sings. 
Methought, dear Marguerite, I truly loved, 

Because my heart was happy in his smile ; 
But now I know the soul I never strove to 
read 
In all its tenderness, my lightness grieved 
the while. 



76 



CQai^gubi^itie's yov: 



Alas ! I never looked beyond the passing 

day ; 
I never knew the priceless depths from which 

I turned away ; 
The knowledge of the lost but came when 

grief first bade me pray 1 
And only now, my own sweet Marguerite, 
I feel what thou hast been to me — thy 'Little 
One/ 
How truly thou hast loved — how truly 
striven 
That my child heart miss not the mother 
gone ! 
I did not love thee with the same true love, — 
Wilt thou forgive me, Marguerite ? I grieved 
Thee in my waywardness — too coldly paid, 
Too lightly held the tenderness my life 
received." 



" Elsie, my treasure," i»Iarguerite moaned, 

through fast-dropped tears, 
"Thou lovcst as I love — speak not of what. is 

past ! 



CQai^guei^ite's Uow 



11 



More than my heart hath dared to pray, God 

granteth me at last ; 
The sad, sad gladness of this night o'erflovvs 

all sadder years." 



The golden head lay pillowed on her breast; 
The pale, pale cheek to Marguerite's close- 
pressed ; 
The pulses of their hearts, too full for utterance, 
Throbbing in silent unison. And so the eve 
Wore on into the night. And the night-chill 
Crept through the veins of Elsie, lying still, 
—so still ! 

But the night-dews were the only tears to 

grieve. 
For Marguerite thought she slept ! 



Not first to Marguerite's heart with day had 

come 
The consciousness of utter loneliness ; 
But kneeling in the dawning light, she prayed — 



..^ ... 

78 ffiAI^GUEI^IlHE'S yOW 



"If this must be, thank God that thus it 
came !" 

And kissed the icy hand enfolded in her 
own, 

In calm, deep grief — no thought of bitter- 
ness 

Teaching her soul to murmur at God's will — 

His holy comfort whispered — " Peace, be 
still!" 



E'en yet was Marguerite young to be alone, 

So utterly alone in all the earth. 
To prove the sadness of her empty home. 
To meet the silent memories of her lonely 

hearth. 
Yet she whose woman heart was formed to 

live by love. 
Who craved no earthly thing save only 

love ; 
Bowed to the chastening rod, and looked 

beyond 
Things mortal, and those chapel-tombs, to 

things above. 

T J. 

T ! 






CQAI^GUEI^IIPE'S UOW yg 



And when she needs must grieve for her great 
weariness 
Of solitude, she kneels between the tombs- 
She only left of all the three— with hands up- 
raised, 
The calm that floods the place her brow 
illumes 
With beauty such as angels love— low mur- 
muring : 
" She, taught by him the higher love to know, 
Bv me, through him, is of the angels now ! 
Father, thy mercy wrought this blessing on 

my vow ! 
The sorrow of my life fades into nothingness ; 
Thy peace o'erflows my soul with hope of 

endless blessedness ! 
Life's sunset shadows gather o'er my failing 

eyes ; 
I believe— I wait— in longing for Heaven's 
fairer skies ! " 



Oft-time the dole of suffering taught to man 
below 



80 CQAr^GUBRiriiB's yow 



Seems very great for human hearts to bear : 
God knows how great! and voices from the 

skies, 
With their soft murmurings of faith, arrest 

despair ; 
And ever grows the suffering soul more 

strong 
To believe and to endure, through this true 

faith, 
Which brighter gloweth in the darkening hour. 
For as His children need, the Father measureth. 



The light grew calmer in her mournful eyes. 

Her soul rose strong above her buried pain; 
And blessings wreathed her name with innnor- 
telles, 
And wrote, in mourning hearts — '^ She hat/i 
not lived in vain ! " 



I -J 




018 604 138 « 



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Hollinger Corp. 
pH 8.5 



